


Fine Dwarven Goods

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25412113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: The finest dwarven goods are the ones not for sale.
Relationships: Male Aeducan/Gorim Saelac
Kudos: 6





	Fine Dwarven Goods

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from: https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/80751.html?thread=327955823#cmt327955823

Duran doesn't care that he's just left half his travelling party on the other side of the square near the chantry board. Nor does he care about the startled shouts and curses he leaves in his wake as he ducks around the other patrons of the Denerim market. Not his fault they aren't prepared for a fast travelling well armoured dwarf pushing past them at high speed. He'd recognise that voice shouting over the crowd anywhere.

“Fine Dwarven ooooof!”

Duran laughs, stopping the blade that is aimed for his ribs without even thinking about it and buries his face into Gorim's shoulder. “Missed you.” He says and the body pinned beneath him abruptly stills, no longer trying to wriggle out from underneath both him and the table where Duran's flying tackle left them; the arms that had been groping for another blade instead coming up to wrap round Duran's back.

“Duran?” There's wonder in Gorim's voice. “I didn't know if you'd got out of the deep roads, and then even if you did I thought you'd died at Ostagar. They sent news...”

“Didn't think a few darkspawn were going to keep me down right?” Duran says, not moving an inch, his voice muffled.

“No. I suppose not.” Gorim says with a laugh that neither of them will mention is slightly more hysterical than either of them would like. “I’d have come looking for you if I hadn’t gotten injured by some bandits, took me a while to find a decent healer. So, I suppose I need to go tell the smith I’m working for I’m leaving and pack my bags?”

“You'll come with me?” Duran asks, he wasn't sure given the stall Gorim seems to have set up. Or that was set up before they crashed into it.

“I'd have gone to the deep roads with you if they'd let me.” Gorim's reply speaks of lost time, missed chances and enough regret that Duran can feel himself drowning in it. Ach. Too soppy. What's done is done. They found each other as they promised, that's enough for him.

“Is this a Dwarven greeting ritual I should know about?” Duran snorts, twisting round to give Zevran a gesture he's been assured is rude topside amongst the human populations. It seems to work as Zevran laughs and Leliana looks slightly scandalised.

“Only for me.” Duran says as he gets back to his feet and helps Gorim to extract himself from his stall. “This is Gorim.” He holds a hand up before Zevran can say anything. “He's mine. Find your own Dwarf if you want one.”

“There a problem here?” The voice is half angry, half curious and just a touch suspicious as Duran whirls round to find another dwarf eyeing him up, a forge hammer in hand.

“This is Duran.” Gorim is quick to step up beside him and he's surprised to see the enlightenment in the newcomers eyes. “Do you want me to ah,” Gorim asks as he indicates the mess. Nothing appears to be broken, a testament to Dwarven craftmanship but it is jumbled into a tangle of blades, armour and household goods.

“No, go on, I fancy you've got a lot of catching up to do.” Duran swears he just winked at them. He waves his hands at them in a clear motion to get going as he sets the hammer he was carrying down on the edge of the stall and starts to sort through the wares.

Gorim tugs him away, “he's a blacksmith, anything on there that's not out of Orzammar is made by his hand, he was good enough to give me a job minding the stall. I think he was hoping I'd make a taken woman out of his daughter.” Gorim shoots him a smile, “That was never going to happen but he kept me on after the first couple of attempts at robbing me by the scum that frequent Denerim ended up with said scum being arrested. Well, what was left of them.” The smile is practically predatory by the end of that explanation and Duran can imagine exactly how those encounters went.

The place he's led to is small, a single room that appears to be loosely attached to the rest of a building in the winding back alleys of Denerim. There's a faint scent of coal in the air and the room is warm despite the lack of a fireplace. If he has to guess he'd say that it's built onto the forge and was originally intended as additional storage space. It's cosy, and the low roof is comforting after so many nights under canvas.

“Do you think he'd let you keep the room?” Duran asks curiously and Gorim tosses a startled look over his shoulder before he ducks out, returning a moment later with a lit taper to light his lantern. The one window in the room is set high in the wall and doesn't let much light in given how close together the buildings are here.

“If it was paid for. Why?” He asks curiously as he blows the taper out and hangs the lantern back on its chain, the faint spin and sway setting shadows dancing on the wall. It reminds Duran of home. When they'd just sit and chatter in a darkening room after the fire had died down. They used to forget the time so often Gorim would stay more often than he'd return to his own house.

“Tired of living in a tent, be nice to have somewhere to come back to that's got a roof, and a real bed.” Duran says with a shrug of his shoulders, wincing as his mail settles again. He's also tired of always being on his guard, a tent doesn't feel like enough protection that he can sleep easily.

“I'll ask.” Gorim says as he gives him a long lingering look then puts the pack that he'd just picked up back down. “You're in pain.” It's not a question and Duran can't help the chuckle that escapes him, then the outright laughter as he sits down on the edge of the bed. Stone below but he's missed his second. Gorim just waits for him to stop laughing, a put upon look on his face.

It's just so familiar, so right, that Duran can't help but reach out and tug him closer. Gorim doesn't protest, resting both hands on his head, gently carding through his hair. “Your companions...?”

“They can wait.” Duran says, unburying his head from Gorims chest. “I mean, they’ll find something to occupy themselves with.” He’s sure Leliana will be in the Chantry and Zevran will be in a tavern somewhere.

Gorim raises one brow but doesn’t say a word, just slapping Duran’s arm until he raises it, giving him access to the buckles underneath for his chest plate. He props it against the door, and turns back to find Duran already half way through getting his gauntlets off using his teeth. “You’ll ruin the leather.” Gorim mutters as he finishes the job, glaring at the teeth imprints.

Duran’s mail follows as he shrugs out of it, rolling his shoulders, his spine cracking as he stretches. “I feel like I’ve been wearing that for weeks.”

Gorim’s eyes narrow. “Have you been sleeping in your armour?”

Duran ducks his head, undoing his boots, “occasionally.” He mutters. It’s not his fault. He just doesn’t trust anyone in the camp like he’d trust a group of Dwarven warriors. Like he’d trust Gorim. He’s had nobody to guard his back when he takes his armour off.

“Idiot.” It’s a fond insult from one warrior to another, no bite to it as Gorim tugs at his padded shirt as soon as his boots are free of his feet. His undershirt follows quickly and he allows himself to be pushed down onto the bed. The disapproving hiss that Gorim lets out just makes him smile. It’s not that bad, just a little bruising down one side of his ribs from an ogre trying to smash him into a wall. The elfroot potion had mended the internal bleeding and knitted the ribs back together so he wasn’t going to die any time soon.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” Gorim says as he roots around beside the bed. “Hope you don’t mind smelling like your armour.”

Duran doesn’t really get a choice as Gorim swings himself onto the bed and has a liberal amount of the blade oil poured out before he registers exactly what he said. And then fingers are digging into the muscles at his neck and he lets out a groan that’s nearly all pain. “Fuck.”

“You’re more knot than muscle.” Gorim laughs when a decidedly high pitched yelp and a whine are his only response. “You never take care of yourself,” he stops the near automatic denial from beneath him by digging his thumbs in to a stubborn knot behind his shoulder blade and Duran whimpers.

Duran huffs, then curses at yet another sore spot being worked on. It’ll be easier to just let Gorim have his way, painful as it may be, he knows he’ll feel better for it. He remembers trying to reciprocate once and having his hands batted aside. “It’s my job to take care of you,” Gorim had said before he’d smirked, his eyes sparkling, “besides, I like having you at my mercy for at least a little while. Then you can take care of me.” That had been accompanied by a series of lewd gestures until Duran had simply given in.

He’s not exactly dozing by the time Gorim seems happy with his work, because he’s aware of every nerve ending, yet at the same time he’s so relaxed it’s a challenge to move. “This is why I wanted to come with you,” his second mutters as Duran wiggles round and flops over like a fish out of water. “It’s a wonder you’ve not just keeled over.”

Duran reaches up, grabs a handful of braids and tugs, silencing the tirade in the only effective way he’s found to work. It is just as effective now as it was in Orzammar and he doesn’t let go until he’s quite thoroughly ravished Gorim’s mouth. “Get out of that clothing and find where the pot of oil ended up.” he says, preening at the instant obedience, and no little enthusiasm.

Exile, Blight, potential end of the world, it’s just not important right now as his hands settle on warm skin and the bed dips under Gorim’s weight. He intends to ensure it remains not important until at least tomorrow morning. They have a lot of catching up to do.


End file.
